Scotch with the homily-man

Who isn’t taught to love with not
half but a whole repugnance to lonesomeness?
I had a house I slept on top of
and fed carrot-cake to and mourned for.
Alas, lonely old men are left with
only their limpness and their dementia
in the silly box they smelted all the keys to
having forgotten pleasure is key enough.
The ringing in my ears is my best love.
She’s dead now, ha!, but let me prove
I am a romantic in the deep deep fissure
where I buried her best burning parts.

A boy of thirteen who left his stain
on his neighbor’s blouse and grew up
to get women drunk on his charm,
maybe a little on the bottle in his arm.
Who knew cleaning up could be so fun?
Worn-down mother burns her hand
on the cake-pan, leaves the same
skin in the batter that made the boy’s matter.
Carrot-cake on the back porch
and aches mean aches from spine
to the rectangle of his toddling penis.
Who knew he would speak so
often to it, sometimes so kindly
and sometimes so violent? His
best friend and his worst enemy.

The reading room no one used
except to drink and smoke in,
with the shadows of those two
adolescent pornographers shaded
in between the bookshelves
where they learned a language
that would never, ever, ever die.
Not that either of them stopped
a moment to reflect on how much
learning was in that room, no.
Illiterate bodies boomed and glowed.
What is more addicting than touch?

Nothing lasts, not my forehead
or the wrinkles squat above it
under the pale hair shocks
that back then only peered out when
I abstained a week or more
and the butterchurn of my cock
rented her my off-color sputum
she needed bleach to be rid of.
Finger-painting is only for adults.
Oh how she animated me with
the sight of her shoulder slip,
the cascade of her turning hips,
the heat hidden around her teeth.
Nothing lasts, not my ventricles
that will never taste sweet whether
or not good wine gives her poetry
and she gives it slurred to me,
not my calves or her handprints
around it red as the jugular,
or red as the dawn I smothered her in.
Nothing lasts, so I ask you please
tear this paper into countless pieces
and feed it to the supple young moss.
Nitrogen and oxygen and carbon.
One word in English the same
the world’s waist over, syllable
for syllable dead in the kissing.
What sound is better than
the slick body sounds never named?
A gang of worms will take my
words to the same place
her joints and toes ended up in,
piecemeal, particle for particle,
inseparable as mouths that can’t
open, and indeed equivalent.


~ by Jeremy on November 22, 2011.

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